Wednesday 5th December 2018
It’s a horrible wet grey day here in my portion of Old Blighty. It’s been pissing down all morning and looks set to piss down all afternoon as well. It’s most unseasonable. It’s December after all, where’s the Yule snow? The weather has no sense of occasion these days. I blame Brexit.
I’ve been a bit of a poorly lad with one of the sicky-shitty bugs that hang around at this time of year. I started feeling a bit off on Saturday evening. Initially, I put it down to the Mac and Cheese I’d had for my dinner. It was one of those microwave affairs and it was nasty. Shame on you, Waitrose! How dare you pass off that goo as anything even resembling a Mac and Cheese? I can make a much better version. So why didn’t I? ARSED, I just couldn’t be. I was a lone diner on Saturday you see. The men folk were otherwise engaged. Shane was attending some business meeting with Leo and Dick was at a festive golf club event. He did invite me to join him, but I said I’d rather use my cock as a candlesnuffer than listen to him and his club cronies’ chunter on about birdies and bogeys all evening. Golf, I just don’t get it, man. So, they went off to their respective events, and I settled down to play a brutal and violent computer game while also watching Strictly and intermittently shovelling down the aforementioned goo. Never let it be said this houseboy doesn’t know how to multitask.
By the early hours of Sunday morning I was engaged in a full-scale battle of the gut. It was clear that a sicky-shitty bug had me in its grip. Honestly, there is nothing worse than foul hot liquid spewing from both ends simultaneously. Dick quickly fell victim to the bug too. He makes the most horrific noises when he’s puking. I swear I don’t make half as much racket as he does when I’m ejecting my stomach contents. He sounds like all the demons of hell are tumbling out of his gob when he’s vomiting, as for the other end, well, think massive muddy landslide passing through a narrow canyon and you’ll have an idea of what our ears have been subjected to. He was very snippy with me, claiming it was my fault he had fallen victim to the evil, all singing, all dancing shitterbug, as I went down with it first and must have released it into the house. Shane remained unaffected, or at least under-affected. He complained of a mild bilious feeling yesterday morning and that was it. He has the constitution of an ox. Dick was most put out. By the way, if you’re of a squeamish disposition, and you’re eating your dinner while reading this, then I do apologise.
I’m still feeling a tad washed out, and it’s not what I need at this time of the year. I’ve got cards and presents to organise, trees to decorate, bakes* to make for Eileen’s upcoming festive fete, as well as men folk to spruce up ready for office parties, business dinners and Mason’s balls. It’s all go. I doubt I’ll get much time to chunter and chatter over the coming days, but I will pop in to deliver my customary Christmas card at some point.
Ciao for now.
It’s a horrible wet grey day here in my portion of Old Blighty. It’s been pissing down all morning and looks set to piss down all afternoon as well. It’s most unseasonable. It’s December after all, where’s the Yule snow? The weather has no sense of occasion these days. I blame Brexit.
I’ve been a bit of a poorly lad with one of the sicky-shitty bugs that hang around at this time of year. I started feeling a bit off on Saturday evening. Initially, I put it down to the Mac and Cheese I’d had for my dinner. It was one of those microwave affairs and it was nasty. Shame on you, Waitrose! How dare you pass off that goo as anything even resembling a Mac and Cheese? I can make a much better version. So why didn’t I? ARSED, I just couldn’t be. I was a lone diner on Saturday you see. The men folk were otherwise engaged. Shane was attending some business meeting with Leo and Dick was at a festive golf club event. He did invite me to join him, but I said I’d rather use my cock as a candlesnuffer than listen to him and his club cronies’ chunter on about birdies and bogeys all evening. Golf, I just don’t get it, man. So, they went off to their respective events, and I settled down to play a brutal and violent computer game while also watching Strictly and intermittently shovelling down the aforementioned goo. Never let it be said this houseboy doesn’t know how to multitask.
By the early hours of Sunday morning I was engaged in a full-scale battle of the gut. It was clear that a sicky-shitty bug had me in its grip. Honestly, there is nothing worse than foul hot liquid spewing from both ends simultaneously. Dick quickly fell victim to the bug too. He makes the most horrific noises when he’s puking. I swear I don’t make half as much racket as he does when I’m ejecting my stomach contents. He sounds like all the demons of hell are tumbling out of his gob when he’s vomiting, as for the other end, well, think massive muddy landslide passing through a narrow canyon and you’ll have an idea of what our ears have been subjected to. He was very snippy with me, claiming it was my fault he had fallen victim to the evil, all singing, all dancing shitterbug, as I went down with it first and must have released it into the house. Shane remained unaffected, or at least under-affected. He complained of a mild bilious feeling yesterday morning and that was it. He has the constitution of an ox. Dick was most put out. By the way, if you’re of a squeamish disposition, and you’re eating your dinner while reading this, then I do apologise.
I’m still feeling a tad washed out, and it’s not what I need at this time of the year. I’ve got cards and presents to organise, trees to decorate, bakes* to make for Eileen’s upcoming festive fete, as well as men folk to spruce up ready for office parties, business dinners and Mason’s balls. It’s all go. I doubt I’ll get much time to chunter and chatter over the coming days, but I will pop in to deliver my customary Christmas card at some point.
Ciao for now.
*PS: in case anyone out there is worried about me baking while still harbouring some trace of the poo bug, don’t. I’ll make sure my hands are scrubbed prior to rubbing butter into flour. You don’t get a Five Star rating from the HHA (Houseboy Hygiene Association) by scratching your arse and failing to wash your hands prior to contact with food. There is nothing sinister lurking under my fingernails. My mitts are spotless.
Saturday 15th December 2018
Christmas is coming at speed. It’ll be here and gone before you know it, a bit like me today. I’m just dashing in to deliver my Chrissy card while I’ve got a mo, and then I’m off again. Tara for now!
Click Here.
Christmas is coming at speed. It’ll be here and gone before you know it, a bit like me today. I’m just dashing in to deliver my Chrissy card while I’ve got a mo, and then I’m off again. Tara for now!
Click Here.